Monday, April 23, 2012

On gentle hills and golden grass,the wind and the moon played an orchestra.Her reflection and his, madecontact in the glass.His arms pinned at his sides,in her close embrace.Wildflowers were their only friends.

Let us break the heart of the air, she whispered.And paint the leaves in green and red,or colors that don’t exist.Let us walk barefoot through the years.

One recent morning,resting against their pillows – floral.Drinking coffee in bed – black.Looking good – not great.No screaming in pain. Quiet as in church.She wrote a note:"The butterflies are flying away."

Tuesday, March 27, 2012

My old friend,
hidden behind the city lights;
under the dusty pages of a paper from
October two thousand and four;
veiled in velvet covers;
beneath the memories of
rubber ducks floating in
the bathtub;
ice in your single malt;
inside the box of past tense.

Silence.

And you decided to invade
my dreams.
Why punished me with
news on the misery of your
loved ones and
their breathless existence?
What terrible
punishment.
Why?

Silence.

I only started to forget
the scratches in your voice,
the structure of your lips,
the smell of your hands.
I now smell betrayal.

Shhh.

Don’t take me back to my agonies,
as I refuse to separate;
to ache;
to lose.